Questions for Deborah Treisman

The December 22 & 29, 2008, issue of the magazine, the Winter Fiction Issue. Deborah Treisman is The New Yorker’s Fiction Editor.

Can I submit a short story for publication in The New Yorker online?James Russell MayesKuwait City

Is it possible to submit fiction (uninvited) to The New Yorker for consideration?Rahul RayWayland, Mass.

What is The New Yorker’s policy on fiction submissions? If I send a story, will I hear back from you?D. Beth MetzgerHalifax, Nova Scotia

We are happy to look at fiction submissions, which should be e-mailed to fiction@newyorker.com. Due to the overwhelming number of submissions we receive, our response time is usually between two and three months, and you will hear back from us by e-mail.

How far in advance are stories set for publishing? If you read a manuscript today and decided to purchase it, what factors would dictate the time it took before it appeared in the magazine?Thomas SnoodFairfax, Va.

This depends on the space available in each issue for fiction, which varies according to the length of the timely news pieces that need to run. Sometimes we accept a story and it appears in print two weeks later; sometimes it can take several months.

When choosing a story for publication, what do you look for?Dan MoreauSalt Lake City, Utah

What criteria did you use to select the fiction you featured in the Winter Fiction Issue? Were you conscious of a need to demonstrate fidelity to some idea of trademark New Yorker fiction?Tolu OgunlesiLagos, Nigeria

What is the selection process for the Début Fiction Issue? Are the writers recommended by agents or writing programs? Or are they selected from unsolicited, cold submissions? Do you have any slush-pile stories that could warm our hearts?James SepseyBakersfield, Calif.

Why do we see mostly established authors published in your pages? It seems that nine out of ten stories are by authors who have been published for years, have book contracts, etc. Is it strictly based on the merit of the story, or does the fact that it’s written by John Updike or William Trevor, and will be recognizable on the cover at the newsstand, play into the decision?Andrew ThompsonOrlando, Florida

As a reader and writer of fiction, I’m baffled by your magazine’s selection process. More precisely: Why seemingly open up publication to “undiscovered” voices via the easy online submission process when every story you print—near as I can tell—has come in through an agent? When you’re not printing works by long-established writers, you’re printing a story by someone who has a novel coming out soon. I’m not saying “How come you’ve never published me?” but, rather, “Why not actually embrace the promise of an open submissions policy?”Bill PrestonSyracuse, N.Y.

Sorry, it’s going to be the one you hear the most often: What’s the best way for a beginning writer without an agent to get a story noticed amid the slush pile you no doubt have to sift through? Should we even bother submitting to The New Yorker_?Shane SchickToronto, Ontario_

For the past five years or so, anywhere from a fifth to a quarter of the stories published in the magazine have been by writers who hadn’t previously published fiction in The New Yorker. Some had been published elsewhere already; some hadn’t. The idea of newsstand sales doesn’t enter into our decision-making process. In the fiction department, we have the extraordinary luxury of being able to debate the literary quality of each story, rather than its marketability. And while it’s an undeniable privilege to be able to put out the best work by short-fiction masters like Trevor and Updike, it’s also a special thrill to be able to bring readers work by writers they are unlikely to have encountered yet. Our slush pile fairly often yields stories that merit serious consideration. Once in a while, those stories are strong enough to publish. More often, we will pull out of the slush pile a promising but not quite successful manuscript and then enter into an ongoing correspondence with the author; sometimes, by the time that writer produces a story that works for us, he or she has found an agent. At any given time, there are scores of writers whom we’re reading and following and encouraging through rewrites, in addition to those we’re actually publishing.

I’m a little confused by the assumption among some readers that a writer’s having an agent is indicative of a kind of “insider” literary conspiracy. It would be self-defeating for agents to take on writers simply because they have connections. Agents take on writers whose books they think will do well with the general public—in the fiction world, this means that they choose writers, for the most part, who they think are talented and have something to offer the world. For us, agents function as first-round readers, pulling talent out of their slush piles and bringing it to our attention. It’s a great service, and it can save writers quite a bit of time. So, although we don’t discriminate in any way against writers who don’t yet have agents and we will always search through our slush pile as well, we do appreciate the judgment and discernment of the agents who consistently recognize raw talent and send it our way.

When a story in The New Yorker is also a piece of longer fiction soon to be published as a novel—a favorite example would be the one from “The Lay of the Land,” by Richard Ford—how does that work? Who picks the excerpt? Do you do all or most of the editing? What kind of collaboration, if any, is involved?Richard Mac BriarCulver City, Calif.

It is usually a collaborative process. Sometimes a chapter stands alone as a story; more often, some cutting and splicing and piecing together of different elements from a novel is required. Generally, I or one of the other fiction editors here will come up with a first draft, and then collaborate with the writer to make it as strong as possible—sometimes this requires the author to write additional lines or passages; sometimes plot points are adjusted slightly; sometimes a fifty-page section of a novel is pared down to twenty-five, or passages that are a hundred pages apart in the book are combined. Our goal is to publish something that is a satisfying story in its own right—not to present a writing sample from a forthcoming novel.

What’s the New Yorker’s ratio of novel excerpts to short stories these days?Sarah CrowCanterbury, N.H.

On average, of the fifty or more pieces of fiction we publish a year, three to five are novel excerpts.

What do you see as the role of fiction (both short fiction and novels) in our society? How do you implement this within the pages of The New Yorker_?Tamara LinseLaramie, Wyo._

Do we need fiction more during a recession, or less?Amrita DouglasNew York, N.Y.

I find that writers tend to produce less during depressing or politically difficult times. After 9/11, for instance, the flood of manuscripts slowed to a trickle. Sometimes, the brute force of fact outweighs the pleasures of invention. But fiction serves multiple roles: it entertains, educates, expands horizons, allows one to see and empathize with the unfamiliar (a quality that was especially crucial after 9/11), among many other things.

What was your reaction to [the Swedish Academy member] Horace Engdahl’s comments that American writers are “too isolated, too insular” and “too sensitive to trends in their own mass culture”? Do you know of any writers who you feel defy this characterization?Philip Bestrom

I would hope that writers everywhere are sensitive to trends in their own culture. We rely on them to notice, to dissect, and to record social behavior so that we can learn from it, build on it, or improve it. As for insularity among American writers, I have yet to encounter any.

I have not seen any fiction from Edward P. Jones in the magazine in the last two years. Do you expect to publish any of his work in the near future?Tom BardoArlington, Wis.

We haven’t seen anything from Edward P. Jones in the past two years, either. My guess, and hope, is that he’s working on a novel or some new stories. When he does come up with something new, we’ll be waiting as eagerly as you are.

My students don’t seem to have the requisite appreciation for the artistry of contemporary short-story treasures like Michael Chabon’s “Along the Frontage Road” or T. Coraghessan Boyle’s gut-thumping “Chicxulub.” Their chief complaint: “Too realistic. If we want realism, we can turn on CNN.” So what will the video-game-thumbing, dragon/wizard/vampire-addicted, anime-adoring, and graphic-novel-loving generation do to or for the short story?Rose ToubesDes Moines, Iowa

Short stories are my favorite form of fiction, but they seem to have almost no impact on popular culture these days. TV and film seem to have supplanted written fiction. Even the most widely read novels cannot compete with the audience for unpopular TV shows. And short stories have only a small percentage of the audience of novels. Looking at the writing of young fiction writers, TV, film, and comic books seem to have a bigger impact than the work of other fiction writers. Do you think fiction has lost its place as a central part of popular culture? Do you think the short story is a dying art form? Do you think there will be a time when a story will be able to generate the passionate response that “The Lottery” did? What can be done to revive short fiction? Better writers seem to be the answer—considering the quality of writing that is already out there.Bart ZimmerJoliet, Ill.

Perhaps I’m kidding myself, but I don’t believe that the audience for fiction has been reduced; more likely, it’s just that the audience for television has grown. “The Lottery” got a tremendous response for a short story, but it was still only a matter of a few hundred letters—far fewer than you’d expect in response to a popular TV show these days. I (and most people I know) find it possible both to read and to enjoy film and TV, and to feel an impact on my life from all three. People are always announcing the demise of literature, and yet literature somehow keeps on going, and the support systems for producing it—writing workshops, M.F.A. programs, etc.—keep expanding. My guess is that self-expression will go on being a need in our culture—and if some of that self-expression finds its way into screenplays and some into novels and some into video-game design or comic books, we’ll only be richer for the diversity.

I have subscribed to and read The New Yorker for many years. While it could by my imagination, it seems to me that the short stories have become increasingly dreary. Life is not just about angst. Dreariness does not necessarily make great writing. I know the Shouts & Murmurs column is humorous and that you do periodically publish David Sedaris, but the short stories? Life and the human condition are funny. Ribald, gentle, messy—any other adjective you would care to apply. Are there any authors currently writing works of short fiction that you consider humorous and would consider publishing?Kern BelzBrussels, Belgium

I have noticed that the short stories in The New Yorker often have very depressing plots. Failing relationships, death, and the hardships of poverty seem to be all-time favorites. In fact, I sometimes don’t even finish reading the stories when I am not in the mood for being depressed. I am not asking for completely cutting out serious topics, but something a little more uplifting would be a far more enjoyable read once in a while. Would that be possible?Julia StaffelLos Angeles, Calif.

I fear this goes back to the basic rules of narrative structure: without some form of conflict, you have no plot. Happiness doesn’t provide progression or development. It’s very difficult to write an entirely cheerful story and have it be interesting. That being said, we do publish a number of writers who frequently manage to be funny—George Saunders, Lorrie Moore, Aleksandar Hemon, Gary Shteyngart, Tom McGuane, and Roddy Doyle come instantly to mind, though there are others.

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